Hunting and Gathering (7 page)

 
They were interrupted by her mother's arrival. Camille got up and said to her, in a hoarse, unsteady voice, “Wait a minute, I haven't finished putting my things away.”

 
One day, not long ago, she received a poorly wrapped parcel with this letter:

 
Camille could not hold back her tears when she unwrapped the box of Chinese painting tools—the same box she was using at this very moment . . .

 
 
INTRIGUED, the waitress came to clear away the empty coffee cup and she glanced over at the tablecloth. Camille had just drawn a cluster of bamboo stalks. The leaves and stems were the most difficult thing to get.
One leaf, lass, a simple leaf blowing in the wind, took the masters years of work, even an entire lifetime . . . Play with contrasts. You've got only one color to work with and yet you can suggest everything . . . Concentrate harder. If you want me to carve you your seal someday, you've got to make your leaves much lighter than that . . .

 
The paper was really poor quality, and it curled and absorbed the ink too quickly.

 
“May I?” asked the waitress.

She held out a packet of clean tablecloths. Camille moved back and put her work on the floor. The old man was grumbling; the girl scolded him.

“What's he saying?”

“He's complaining because he can't see what you're doing.” She added, “He's my great-uncle. He's paralyzed.”

“Tell him the next one will be for him.”

The girl went back to the bar and spoke to the old man. He calmed down and looked fiercely at Camille.

 
For a while Camille stared back at him; then, using the entire surface of the tablecloth, she drew a little laughing man who looked just like him, running through a rice paddy. Camille had never been to Asia but for a background she improvised a mountain in the mist, some pine trees and rocks, and even Zhu Da's little hut on a promontory. She portrayed her old man in a Nike cap and a jacket, but she'd left him with bare legs and wearing only a traditional loincloth. She added a few splashes of water at his feet, and a group of children chasing after him.

 
Camille leaned back to inspect her work.

There were a few details she was dissatisfied with but, in the end, the old fellow looked happy, truly happy. So she opened the little pot of red cinnabar and set her seal onto the picture in the middle of the right-hand side. She stood up, cleared the old man's table, put a plate under the tablecloth to prop the picture up, then went back for it and arranged it in front of him.

No reaction.

 
Oops, she thought, maybe I've offended him.

 
When his great-niece came back from the kitchen, he let out a long, sorrowful moan.

“I'm sorry,” said Camille, “I thought that—”

The girl made a gesture to interrupt her, went to fetch a pair of thick glasses from behind the counter and slid them onto the old man's nose below his cap. He nodded ceremoniously and began to laugh. A child's laughter, clear and jolly. There were tears there too, and he laughed again, rocking back and forth with his arms crossed over his chest.

 
“He wants to drink some sake with you.”

“Great.”

The girl brought out a bottle and he yelled something. She sighed and went back to the kitchen.

When she returned, she had a different bottle and the entire family in tow: an older woman, two middle-aged men, and a teenager. They were all laughter, shouting, bowing and bursts of enthusiasm. The men tapped the old man on the shoulder and the boy gave him a high five.

 
Then each of them returned to what they were doing, and the girl put two little glasses down in front of Camille and the old man. He nodded to her, then emptied his glass before filling it again.

“I'm warning you, he's going to tell you his life story,” said the girl.

“No problem. Whoa, this is strong.”

The girl walked away, laughing.

 
They were alone now. The old man was chattering away, and Camille listened earnestly, nodding whenever he pointed to the bottle.

 
It was no easy thing to stand up and get her things together. She bowed good-bye over and over to the old fellow, then stood giggling and helpless by the door, tugging on the door handle, till the girl had to come help her to push it open.

“You're at home here anytime, okay?” she said. “Come and eat here whenever you want. If you don't come, he'll be angry. And sad too.”

 
Camille was completely drunk when she showed up at work.

Samia said excitedly, “Hey, did you meet a guy or something?”

“Yes,” confessed Camille, sheepishly.

“No kidding?”

“Yes.”

“What's he like? Is he cute?”

“Really cute.”

“Really? That's great! How old is he?”

“Ninety-two.”

“Hey, you're bullshitting me. How old is he really?”

“Okay, girls, whenever you're ready!”

There was Miss Josy, pointing at her watch.

 
Camille walked away, giggling, tripping over the hose of the vacuum cleaner.

9

MORE than three weeks had gone by. Franck was working every Sunday as a catering assistant in another restaurant on the Champs-Elysées, and every Monday he traveled to his grandmother's bedside.

 
She was in a convalescent home a few miles north of the town, and from first light on she'd be waiting for him to come.

As for Franck, he had to set his alarm, head like a zombie down to the corner café, drink two or three coffees in a row, climb onto his motorcycle, then head off to catch up on his sleep in a hideous leatherette armchair by his grandmother's bed.

 
When they brought her dinner in on a tray, Paulette would put her finger to her lips and, with a jerk of her head, indicate the big baby curled up there, keeping her company. She watched over him jealously, and made sure that the jacket covered his chest properly.

She was happy. He was there. Really there. All hers.

 
Paulette didn't dare call the nurse to ask her to raise the bed; she took her fork gingerly between her fingers and ate in silence. She hid things in her night table—bits of bread, a portion of cheese and some fruit—for Franck when he woke up. Then she quietly pushed the tray away and folded her hands across her stomach with a smile.

Lulled by her youngster's breathing and the sudden rush of memories, Paulette closed her eyes and dozed. She'd lost him so many times already, so many times. She sometimes felt she'd spent her life hunting for him: in the garden, in the trees, at the neighbors', where he'd be hidden in the stables or slumped in front of the television; then at the café, of course; and now she hunted for him using little scraps of paper where he scribbled phone numbers that were never correct.

 
She'd done her best, though, she really had. Fed him and kissed him. Cuddled and reassured and scolded him. Punished and consoled him. But none of it had done a bit of good. No sooner did that kid know how to walk than he was scampering off somewhere, and once he had three hairs on his chin that was it. He was gone.

 
Sometimes when she was daydreaming she'd wince, and her lips would tremble. Too much sorrow, too much waste, and so many regrets. At times it had been so, so hard. But she mustn't think about all that. Anyway, Franck started to wake up, hair tousled and his cheek marked by the seam on the armchair.

“What time is it, Grandma?”

“Nearly five.”

“Fuck, already?”

“Franck, why are you always saying that f-word?”

“How about, ‘goodness-gracious-me, already'?”

“Are you hungry?”

“I'm okay, I'm more thirsty. Let me go stretch my legs.”

So there we are, thought Paulette, that's it. “Are you leaving?”

“Course not, I'm not leaving, fu—gracious me.”

“If you see a red-haired man with a white coat, can you ask him when I'm supposed to get out of here?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Franck as he went out the door.

“A tall man with glasses and a—”

He was already in the corridor.

“Well?”

“I didn't see him.”

“Oh?”

“C'mon, Grandma,” he said gently, “you're not gonna start crying again, are you?”

“No, but I . . . I've been thinking about the cat, and the birds. And it's been raining all week long and I'm worried about my tools. I didn't put them away and they're going to rust for sure.”

“I'll go by the house on my way home and take care of it.”

“Franck?”

“Yes?”

“Take me with you.”

“Oh, Grandma . . . Don't do this to me every time. I can't take it.”

She took ahold of herself.

“The tools . . .”

“What?”

“You need to oil them with neat's-foot oil.”

He looked at her and blew out his cheeks. “Hey, if I have time, okay? Right, this is all very well, but you have your gym class now, you know. Where's your walker?”

“I don't know.”

“Grandma.”

“Behind the door.”

“C'mon, old girl, get up, you want to see some birds? I'll show you some birds!”

“Bah, there's no birds here. Just vultures and raptors.”

Franck smiled. He loved it when his grandma was spiteful.

 
“You okay?”

“No.”

“Now what's the matter?”

“It hurts.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“Everywhere? That's impossible. Show me the exact spot.”

“Inside my head.”

“That's normal. Hey, we all hurt inside our heads. C'mon, introduce me to your girlfriends.”

“No, go the other way. I don't want to see those folks, I can't stand them.”

“And what about that old guy in the blazer, he's not bad, is he?”

“That's not a blazer, stupid, that's his pajamas, and on top of it he's deaf as a post. And pretentious to boot.”

 
As long as she was putting one foot before the other and bad-mouthing her fellow inmates, everything would be all right.

 
“Okay, I'm on my way.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. If you want me to take care of your hoe . . . I've got to get up early tomorrow and I don't have anyone to bring me breakfast in bed.”

“Will you call me?”

He nodded.

“That's what you say and then you never do.”

“I don't have time, Grandma.”

“Just say hello and then hang up.”

“Okay. To be honest, I don't know if I can make it next week. My boss is taking us for a night on the town.”

“Where?”

“The Moulin Rouge.”

“Really?”

“Nah, I wish. We're going to the Limousin to see the guy who sells us his livestock.”

“What a funny idea.”

“That's my boss all over. He says it's important.”

“So you won't be coming?”

“I don't know.”

“Franck?”

“Yes?”

“The doctor . . .”

“I know, the redheaded guy, I'll try and get ahold of him. And you do your exercises like you're supposed to, okay? I hear the physio isn't too pleased with you.”

When he saw her astonished expression he added, facetiously, “So you see, I do telephone from time to time.”

 
He put away the tools, ate the last strawberries from the vegetable garden and sat there for a moment. The cat wound its way between his legs, mewing hoarsely.

“Don't worry, Puss, don't worry. She'll be back.”

The jangle of his cell phone roused him from his lethargy. It was a girl. He did his rooster act; she giggled like a clucking chicken.

She invited him to a movie.

All the way home he rode at over a hundred miles an hour, trying to think up a way to get laid without having to sit through the movie. He wasn't crazy about the cinema. He always fell asleep before the end.

10

IN mid-November, when the cold weather began its dirty work of undermining everyone's morale, Camille finally decided to head for the nearest home improvement store, in order to improve her chances of survival. She spent her entire Saturday there, wandering up and down the aisles, touching the wooden panels, admiring the tools, the nails and screws, the door handles, the curtain rods, the tins of paint, the moldings, the shower cabinets and sundry chrome mixer faucets. She then went to the gardening section and made an inventory of everything she might dream of having: gloves, rubber boots, the combined hoe and fork, chicken coops, sowing buckets, organic fertilizer, and seed packets in their infinite variety. She spent as much time observing other customers as she did inspecting the wares: a pregnant woman among the pastel wallpapers; a young couple arguing about a hideous wall lamp; a sprightly man with an air of early retirement about him, in his Timberland shoes, and with a spiral notebook in one hand and a carpenter's yardstick in the other.